No Other End of the World Will There Be
by Amethyst Asheryn
Summary: Humanity has fled the apocalypse, leaving behind empty cities and a legacy: The trapped, forsaken nations who can only wait for the world to end. 9: Germany, Italy, Austria, Hungary, Poland and the Nordics all have problems to fix before going to Canada.
1. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

01.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star

America is present at the launch of his first exit ship. Its passenger roster boasts two hundred names, the two hundred brave and bold who risk their necks on this maiden voyage. He is so proud of them that he stands at the door and shakes their hands as they board. None of them really know who he is, except that he's some high-ranking official, but he exerts an air of such importance above and beyond any run-of-the-mill diplomat that they all leave with the feeling that they have just shaken the hand of a legend. It's quite a brash, upbeat legend, but the adjectives aren't so important as the noun in the long run.

He waits until the shuttle has gone from view, a silver ghost disappearing into the bright morning sky before turning to go. He gets as far as his parked car before he has to pause and look up again, as if he might still see that silver arrow. Of course he knows he will not. The brain and heart of him, the part that is as human as his pseudonym Alfred Jones, knows he won't. But that larger part, the part intimately connected with his land and his people and his culture, pulls his gaze upwards anyway. It takes him a few more moments before his people finally free his thoughts and body long enough for him to climb into his car and turn the key in the ignition.

It's only the first of many, he knows as he drives away from the lot. It's the first of many shuttles which will be built and readied and boarded and flown away, carrying his people into space. They will all go. They have no choice. It is either that or die on the planet when the asteroid impacts. But for now, he doesn't think about that. That time is too far in the future for him to worry about. For now, he is just proud.

Two weeks later, when the news of the shuttle's malfunction and destruction has reached Earth and the news networks, England comes to visit America. America is watching the news on the television, sitting almost uncharacteristically still.

England isn't there because of the destroyed shuttle, he tells America. There is diplomatic business that needs America's attention. But that never really gets touched upon, if it even existed. America supposes that next time all the boring paperwork will be filed and filled. This time, England spends most of his visit battering down the walls around America's emotions with uncanny ease. England's good at knocking down walls; America supposes that's because of all the years he and his people spent doing it to other people's castles and manor houses and whatever else they had over in Europe to knock down. America never had castles. And so England talks it out of him somehow, and he admits eventually that he is surprised how much the loss of that shuttle hurts him.

England tells him it's just his people's hurt and emotions bleeding through, and somehow the implication that none of those emotions are truly _his_ offends America. And it frightens him a little, too, and he suddenly finds himself trying to sort his emotions into two groups: _My_ _emotions_ and _their_ _emotions._ It doesn't work. He can't tell them apart. And so he snaps at England that he is just bummed out that his heroic shuttle mission failed, and clams up as much as he can after that.

NASA loses contact with the second shuttle two days after launch. They keep track of it on radar for as long as they are able, but the readings they receive from their life systems inside the shuttle are not encouraging. They give up that batch of spacefarers for dead two weeks after the launch. America still can't sort his emotions. He stops trying after a while and simply lets them exist, hard knots in the pit of his stomach and his chest and his throat, until the memories of them fade from the minds of his people and the next shuttle is launched.

This one continues on for longer, keeping in perfect contact until they pass out of range altogether. Once they pass out of range, they are to put themselves into suspended animation until such time as the ship's sensors discover a suitable planet they can land on. No one knows when that might be. It's more important to vacate Earth right now.

And so they do. Once the success of the third mission has been publicized, an influx of people sign up for transportation off-planet. America can no longer meet all the shuttles; he is busy with affairs of state, keeping the peace as his people flee.

One day, a day when America has almost lost count of the people who have left him, the shuttles which have flown away, his President suggests he board the next shuttle. America just shakes his head and says, flippantly, "Are you kidding? I know you still need me around! The hero does not run from danger." And he grins, which assures his President of his good humor, and the man just sighs because he knows the boisterous nation isn't going to be taken down any pegs by words he might offer.

America knows he's still needed by his nation; but more than that, he knows none of his other fellow nations have abandoned their world yet, and he swears he will not be one of the first to flee. It's not in his nature to run from things.

But over the years it begins to seem less like running and more like exploring. Shuttles take off nearly every day. Everything mankind has is being placed into this last desperate rush from Earth, ahead of a disaster they know they cannot avert. Nations band more closely together than they have for decades. America swears once to England that he actually saw Greece and Turkey having a prolonged civil discussion during a break in one of their world conferences. England laughs him off, but America knows his eyes did not deceive him. Things have grown serious, and everyone knows it.

His people dream of space now. Those who have not already signed up are scraping the money together to do so; the stars have never seemed so close, so bright, so inviting. Whole new plains to explore, America begins to think. The world is finite; when he was young he had roamed his country, exploring it, mapping it, fighting for and through it, making it his and his alone, and then opening it for the world to see and touch and be. It was the melting pot of everything good and bad that could possibly end up on his shore. But he has explored its cracks and crevices centuries ago, and now it is drawn on maps which you can buy for barely anything at convenience stores wherever there is a possibility of two tourists visiting separately. There is nothing left on this Earth to explore.

But out there, there is space. Wider than he can conceive and lighted by more stars than he might count, it can surely never be fully explored. And America is, at his heart, an explorer. Curious of what he has not seen, protective of that part of it which, having seen, he claims for his own, and always, deep down, hungering for more. America has grown bored.

But he holds back.

Early on, Sealand boards one of the shuttles along with his royal family, the only people who give him being. The shuttle is a British one, but America arrives to see it off, because, though his dealings with Sealand have been few, he feels he owes it to his little fellow country. Far, far back, through the press of the watching crowd who always come for the thrill of a shuttle's launch, America thinks he catches the flash of blond hair, the fleeting image of a green-eyed face, bushy eyebrows knit in a frown, eyes gleaming with just that tiny bit too much moisture. But America doesn't manage to push through the crowd fast enough; by the time he reaches that spot, England has vanished.

Sealand doesn't return. And the shuttles stream away, silver arrows pointing the way America wishes he could go.

They stream away forever, and the flow thins, and the ticket prices go down as fewer and fewer people remain to buy. And it's only when America learns that they're beginning to empty the museums, load their treasures onto the half-empty shuttles, that he begins to linger around the ticket booths in earnest.

He doesn't buy. Not right away. The ticket venders, capitalising on this frantic rush, begin to recognise his face, his odd hair, his bright smiles and energetic conversations he strikes up at the slightest provocation. They like him. It's hard not to. And they hope one day he'll buy from them.

One day, he does. He is watching one of the shuttles being loaded with cargo in preparation to launch, and he catches sight of guards carrying crates aboard. This isn't strictly unusual, except that, while there are only two crates, they are accompanied by a veritable entourage, guards and men in official uniforms alike.

America turns to the ticket vender. "Hey, dude. Any idea what they're putting on that ship?"

The vender glances over, memory and recollection flashing across his face. He tells the young man. "You're lucky to have caught it," he adds. "I'm sure that'll be worth something as a story to tell your kids."

The man is hard-pressed to see his prospective buyer's eyes behind the glasses, but there is a tightening about the corners of the mouth that's almost unmistakable. The blond head turns quickly, back to the ascending crates, and towards the ticket seller again, as if the young man doesn't quite know what he ought to do. Eventually, his gaze steadies and returns to the ticket booth. And, suddenly and at last, he reaches into his pocket and draws out his wallet.

"How much are the tickets again?"


	2. How I Wonder What You Are

02.

How I Wonder What You Are

The launch isn't until the next morning, and so America goes back to his home and tries to pretend the ticket isn't burning a hole in his pocket. He takes it out and puts it on the night table beside his bed, because he doesn't want to forget it in the morning. He sets his alarm for the first time in as long as he can remember. Goes around his room, looking for things he will take with him. There are lots of things, he finds. Too many to fit in one bag. So he fills the first and goes on to the second. If there's anybody allowed to request extra space on a shuttle, then it's most definitely him. It _is_ an American shuttle, after all. And he _is_ America. And the thing will only be half full anyway, judging by the amount of luggage being hauled aboard.

And then England comes to call. He knocks loudly on America's door and then, when there's no answer for longer than he likes, calls up at America's open window. "America, I know you're up there! It's rude to keep guests waiting on your doorstep!"

America sighs and drops the second half-full bag on his bed. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he calls back as he heads for the door, not really caring whether England hears him. "I'm comin', I'm comin'!"

He deliberately takes the stairs at a slow saunter, and pulls the door open exaggeratedly slowly. England shoves inside, trailed by a quick burst of night breeze, cooling as the sun sets and smelling fresh and sharp. America closes the door on it.

"I know you can't resist visiting and all," he says as he wanders back into the living room, trailing a thoroughly unamused Englishman, "but seriously, don't you _ever_ call first? I don't need you to," he adds hastily without looking back. "It's not like I have to prepare for guests or anything. It's just rude not to let people know you're coming, you know?"

"They're taking the original copies of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution off planet today," England says, ignoring America's rambling. From his position a few paces behind his former colony, England has a perfect view of the way America's shoulders stiffen. But the nation doesn't deviate in his stride.

"Yep," he says, and stands to one side of the living room door, gesturing expansively that England should go first. "Just think about how awesome it'll be for the people on that shuttle, getting to spend time in the company of such neat papers. I mean, who knows how long they'll have to stay aboard? They might be able to say they spent years sitting right in front of my Declaration of Independence. How many people can claim that?"

England doesn't like that smile. It shows too many teeth. America's smiles generally do this, because there's no such thing as a happy medium where he is concerned. But this one widens to its limits and then freezes in place like it's been turned to stone, and America talks around it like he's having his photograph taken. It's eerie.

England takes a seat on the couch. "I take it you'll be going to see that shuttle off, then?"

The smile doesn't change. The stance does. America folds his arms across his chest, shifts his feet further apart. It almost looks defensive. "'Course I am," he says. "Who stays at home when the most important papers they ever helped write"-England gives America a raised eyebrow and a very skeptical look, which America ignores-"are being shot out into space to add a little bit more heroism to the galaxy? Just because you might-"

"I'll have you know," said England, and straightened up even further where he sat, "that some of my most vital national documents and papers have been shipped out over the past weeks on British shuttles. I have okayed each takeoff and been there to personally oversee. I don't neglect my country."

America shrugs. "All right, all right, keep your shirt on. Jeez."

"And," England adds, softer, "they're already beginning the disassembly of Big Ben."

This does catch America off-guard. That stone-still smile slips a little. "O-oh yeah?" He pulls himself together. "I bet that's gonna take up a lot of shuttles."

"So will the Statue of Liberty."

That blow allows no recovery. America's smile slides, catastrophically, covering up those gleaming teeth. It twitches feebly in its death throws as he tries to pull it back. Only the tiniest grin manages to remain, and this one bares no teeth. "Yeah," he says. "I bet it will."

England waves a hand at the couch beside him. America takes the silent hint and sinks down on the opposite end, leaning back into his cushions and staring at the wall opposite.

England says, voice less harsh this time, "I suppose you _have_ been okaying the shuttle cargo."

"Well ..." America scratches his head. "I've been signing things, yeah. I guess those were probably the lists of stuff they've been removing from museums around the country. Been kinda preoccupied, though."

England can't help a slightly incredulous sidelong glance at his former colony. It's amazing how one can become such a powerful country and still have moments of such complete and utter stupidity. And somehow, miraculously, none of those many moments have quite managed to kill America yet. He's got the luck of the devil, England decides. Nothing else quite makes sense.

America turns his head back to England, and straightens his posture on the couch. England can see him pulling his shredded confidence back about him like a cloak, mending its myriad rips and tears and winding it back about his body. "So," he says. "Is that really all you came over to talk about? You've been staying in London, haven't you? I know my company is irresistible, but that's a really long plane trip."

But it's the end of the world, and long plane trips are the least of their worries. And somewhere along the way, between the moment he asks the question and the moment he trudges up to bed, America lets slip that there is a small piece of paper sitting up on his night table which will take him to the stars.

Suddenly England doesn't seem so superior. He tells America, coolly, that he is staying in a hotel a couple of miles away, and it's only after the Englishman has whisked himself out America's front door that the young nation realises England did not give him a room number. America supposes he could call the hotel, track England down that way, but the problem with the pair of them is and has always been their mutual stubbornness. So America doesn't call, and goes to bed telling himself that he shouldn't be feeling vaguely guilty about anything.

The shuttle launch is early the next morning, but America isn't one of the first ones there. He arrives fairly late, after many of his fellow passengers have already boarded, and slides his way with difficulty through the large crowd that has gathered for the launch. None of them seem to quite notice him, and it takes him several moments of pushing and shoving before he reaches the embarkation area.

He passes the officials there quickly, flashing his ticket and ascending the shuttle's ramp with sure footfalls. At the top, and just for a moment, he turns around to look back.

England doesn't duck away quickly enough. At least, America is fairly sure it's England. He doesn't get a good look; straggling passengers are hastening forward, catching him up in their rush, prodding him aboard. He has no choice but to take a seat. He manages to slide into one by the window, and, dropping his carry-on with little care on the seat beside him, he turns to peer closely out the window.

The crowds all blend, far down and far back, so that he can barely tell one person from another. But he has known England for more than two centuries; surely he ought to recognise his fellow, somewhere down there. So he scans the brown heads, and the black heads, and the red heads scattered here and there, bright points in the sea, and the blonde heads, and he strains to pick one out.

"Excuse me, sir." The shuttle's stewardess stands beside his seat, motioning to his carry-on. "I'm going to have to ask you to put this in the overhead bin, please. We need this seat free."

America turns from the window, preoccupied. "What? ... Oh, yeah. Sure." He grabs the bag and stands, whisking it over his head into the bin, and turning back to the window with just a small smile for the stewardess. And he watches until takeoff time, when the field is cleared and the heads recede into the distance to watch the launch in safety. He can't tell them apart that far away.

But he tries. Staring carefully out the window, he thinks back to standing just at the top of the ramp and staring back and seeing the flash of that face disappearing into the crowd.

The scariest thing is that suddenly, he isn't sure if it was even England in the first place.

They launch, and it's rough going while they reach escape velocity and blast up high into the atmosphere. It isn't a quiet shuttle. The engines roar and the roar surrounds him and bears them all away, and America is still looking out the window when the shuttle itself leaves him behind.

They are just about to break through the atmosphere. The engines have built their roar to a fever pitch and the passengers are all pressed back hard into their seats, and America watches the ground receding beneath them. And then suddenly there is a sharp tug in his chest, as if his heart has fluttered and stopped for just a split second, and then he is watching from outside the window as the shuttle roars away.

And he is falling. From the extreme upper edge of the atmosphere he is falling, down and down and down, gravity pulling him back to the Earth he wanted to leave, and for a moment he's afraid of what might happen when he hits the ground.

Personifications are hurt far more by the things they personify than by the physical reality of the world around him. When he hits the ground, it hurts and knocks the wind out of him, and he thinks perhaps he's broken something, but he can't tell because it doesn't quite hurt that badly. Not yet. But he has trouble standing or moving and just lies there for a moment, gasping and trying to reinflate his lungs.

England is there, it turns out. America doesn't know when he got there or why, but he's there, checking America carefully over and placing judgment and blame; America is an idiot and shouldn't have been trying whatever stupid stunt he was trying, and he hasn't broken anything but that's just pure dumb luck, and if England's offered hand up isn't accepted he's going to clobber the younger nation with it instead. He probably will do later, anyway.

For a while, America can't speak to defend himself. It's only after he's been pulled back to his feet by England, and they have got halfway back to the Englishman's car, that he finally manages words. "Man ... what do you think I was trying to do? Skydive?"

England opens his mouth, probably to start in on another rant, so America cuts him short.

"I didn't do anything," he says. "I was just sitting there, and then I got sucked out!"

"'Sucked out.'" England has befriended some of the world's finest fantasy authors of all time, but somehow he still has no imagination when it comes to America's stories. "You were 'sucked out' of the closed, pressurised space shuttle."

America nods. "Yeah! And you know ..."

Then he pauses, considering, and realisation begins to dawn. Scattered people are still heading away from the launch area, too absorbed in their own lives to notice the pair of nations arguing.

"... You know ... I think I know why."

"Oh, do you now?"

"It's them." America gestures expansively with the arm which is in less pain. "They still live here."

England just gives him a slightly annoyed look.

"They haven't left. They're still here. They're still _American._ And since they haven't left-"

Now that the theory looks credible, England is perfectly happy to break in. "-you can't leave either," he says.

America nods.

They reach England's car. The Englishman unlocks the door, hauls America's open and half-bundles him inside, then hurries around to his side and slides in. America can tell England is thinking something dour, by the way the man never seems to stop moving. He starts the car and drives away, going quite a few miles over the speed limit, and keeps his eyes stolidly on the road. "Sealand never came back."

The motor is the only reply England receives for a long time. America doesn't think he truly needs to give one. He doesn't know what to say, in any case. Sealand left with the only people who gave him being. Perhaps he's still alive out there somewhere, sleeping deep and peaceful in an English shuttle bound for God only knew where.

And perhaps not. Perhaps that tiny fort off the English coast is the only thing that remains. Stripped of their land, perhaps its nobility had given up who they thought themselves to be. Given up Sealand, the abandoned British fort, and Sealand, the tiny sailor-suited boy who had followed discretely at their heels.

America just doesn't know.

Anything.

Perhaps, he thinks, holding tight to a handhold on the car door as England takes a corner more sharply than is quite necessary, perhaps they'll all be able to depart on the last shuttles that leave Earth, when there will be no one left behind on the land at all. But what then? His people are spread out all across space, shuttles all taking differing courses in hopes of finding somewhere-anywhere-where life is possible. But he can't be in all those places at once. So maybe he'll never be able to leave at all.

England's hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel. If the road weren't so straight here, America is sure he would have been hurling them around corners with intent to kill. He's figured it out too. He's just as unsure as America is.

**End notes:**

- This is not scientifically correct by any means, because scientific correctness isn't the point of the story. However, if any glaring errors are pointed out, I'll do my best to fix them.

- This will not be a cohesive story, as such. Each new chapter will probably be a oneshot (in extreme cases, a two-shot in two chapters), and the next will be about a different character altogether. They will be in chronological order, though.

- I plan to deal with a lot of characters' reactions to these events in later chapters. If there's one you'd like to see, let me know. Other thoughts are welcomed as well.


	3. A World Half Empty

03.

A World Half Empty

"It's pretty."

Austria does not stop playing. His head turns, an easy, unsurprised movement, and that is the only sign he has heard. That and the way his fingers marginally slow their dance across the keys.

"Sit down," he says. "Don't stand in the doorway."

Italy is glad to be invited, the Austrian man can see that. He hurries inside and, instead of sitting on one of the chairs arrayed around the room, sits on the end of Austria's piano bench. Austria grimaces at him, now having to work around the obstacle his body provides, but still doesn't stop playing. He knows Italy won't break in. He hasn't played for Italy in a long time, not since the nation was very young and still under Austria's roof; but he can see the way Italy loves the chords and the rhythms and the gentle notes, and the way he isn't going to force a halt just now.

Austria is allowed to continue until the piece is nearly over, moving with little effort around Italy now that he has got used to the other nation being there. Then the Italian man finally speaks.

"Mr. Austria?"

"What?"

"Why are you only playing on the piano?"

This time Austria does stop playing, because it's such a very odd question. His gaze turns fully upon Italy. "What are you talking about?" he asks, slightly disparaging.

Austria has never understood Italy, not really. It's always been a small source of annoyance to him. Whenever he has seen Italy with Germany, the German nation cannot intimidate Italy, not with blows or curses or shouted threats. But a slight show of sternness from Austria, who doesn't consider it that harsh at any rate, earns that look-that wide-eyed worry, almost caution, which precedes whatever question Italy is about to ask. He's getting that look now. He returns it with a frown, because what else can he do?

Italy says quizzically, "I mean ... why don't you have an orchestra playing with you? There should be one!"

"How do you know?" It comes out more harshly than even Austria intended, but it's surprised him and reminded him and he doesn't like either feeling.

"I ... I've heard the piece." Italy's still giving him that infernal wide-eyed stare.

But Austria's furrowed brow softens a little. It's good to know, at least, that Germany, the workaholic, the militarily precise, the nation Austria swears has _no_ hobbies, hasn't wholly corrupted the little Italy he remembers.

It's been a long time since that little Italy existed ...

Austria shakes his head and pulls his roving mind back under control, back to the present. The big house, empty for the moment but for himself and an Italy now grown and curious.

"Of course it needs an orchestra," he says, fighting his thoughts back into line, his life back into order. "But do you see an orchestra? No. And I won't wait for one."

"But Mr. Austria ... you can always find an orchestra."

Italy is almost pouting, and Austria's brow furrows again. If anyone has the right to be frowning ...

"Look around you," he says sharply, and watches the almost-pout only grow more pronounced.

"What?"

"Do you see people here?" Austria asks, and turns from the piano to gesture around, at the house and the German landscape outside, bleak and barren and empty. "Where will I find an orchestra here! They are all running away on their shuttles!"

He only realises his voice has risen to intolerable decibel levels, by his standards, when Italy forsakes what decorum he has and leaps entirely off the piano bench, backing away, hands flailing before him as if to ward off Austria's anger. "I'm sorry!" he cries, supplicating with gestures and voice. "Don't be angry with me! I'm sorry!"

Austria has to breathe deeply, in and out, in and out, before the knot in his chest slowly dissipates. It becomes a bright flush in his cheeks, the unsightly retribution for letting his temper run away with him.

He turns back to the piano, reorients himself to the black and white keys, the familiar strips of wood beneath his fingers, the pedals beneath his feet, channeling his anger into something bright and beautiful and calm. "I will make do with this," he says slowly, evenly, and plays the first few notes over again.

He _can_ make do with this. Perhaps it was meant for an orchestra, when there were orchestras to play it. But Austria can arrange and play it on just this one instrument, these eighty-eight keys, these two hands, because it's the only thing he can do.

He has music pre-recorded on the computer, and on CDs, and tapes, and old records he has kept for that sound unique to records and to nothing else. He can play them, too. The strings and woodwinds and brass and drums are all captured there, captured for as long as he can keep their homes in tact. He still has the orchestras. He has not truly lost them.

But he has lost the thrill of music played live, ringing through the width and breadth of a concert hall filled with an enraptured audience. Those tiny variations in dynamic and tone that come in a piece played once and never heard the same way again. He has lost playing with them himself, because there is no point in pretending that the grooves in a record could ever be the real thing.

Dark spots in his clean world, spots of loss and memories he won't recapture.

He almost stumbles over the notes. The piece swells in volume, its strains echoing into the so-so acoustics of Germany's house, filled with tension and tears and Austria's anger, at himself, at his musicians now rocketing away from his reach, at the world.

Italy's weight shifts the bench, ever so slightly, and again Austria must work around his fellow nation's body to reach the higher notes. He does without complaint. Perhaps he might teach Italy to play something, to accompany him in the empty void that is the end of the world.

A few rooms away, the front door bangs open, and heavy footfalls resound in the entryway. Italy leaps to his feet. "Germany!" he calls, bouncing from the room to greet his friend.

And perhaps he won't. There's no accounting for taste, he supposes. But Italy, it appears, has very little. Maybe not enough ever to accompany Austria.

The Austrian keeps playing as Germany's loud voice rejects Italy's excited advance. He intends to continue, unless or until Germany calls a halt. Maybe he won't stop even then. Only if he can play out all his emotions now, in this piece, in the time left. If he can channel all the confusing jumble into his fingers and into the keys, and if the keys do not burn away with the force of them. If he is again in control when he is called away, in control of his slowly emptying world, maybe then he can stop.

But he doesn't know if there's enough time for that now. Even if Germany had not yet come home.

**End notes:**

- Envision Austria playing this piece, only on solo piano. (This is a YouTube video. Put the below code at the end of the standard YouTube URL):

watch?v=qmxFAT581T4

Would he play it? Heck if I know. But it's a good mood setter. Also, as Ludovico Einaudi is an Italian composer, I assumed Italy would at least know of him.

- Why is there a piano in Germany's house? Because if Austria ever lived there for any length of time, you know he'd lug a piano in. Artistic license, unless one has been seen in canon, which I don't recall.

- I feel very uncomfortable writing Austria. Please let me know of any character fails I've committed and I'll fix them ASAP.


	4. Hie Away

04.

Hie Away

There are still some boats left here, abandoned in their moorings or in sheds on the shore. Maybe because they have faulty engines, or bad wood, or some other failing that will sink them as soon as their hulls touch the water.

But England picks a sturdy one, a little thing for a little trip, and sets out alone across the sea.

The old British fort isn't far, and it doesn't take him long to get there. Its structure towers above him where he sits, barely above water level himself, as he moors the boat and steps onto solid ground again. He still remembers the fort from when it was his. Stupid Sealand wouldn't let him step foot aboard after he stole it away, despite the fact that the boy happily pranced all over the mainland whenever the fancy took him, and it still rubs England the wrong way. He stands still for a moment, relishing with some smugness the fact that he is firmly on the territory Sealand considered his own, and the little wanna-be can't say a solitary word about it.

But that is also the point of his visit, so, though he's wanted to do this for decades, he only gives himself a few moments to bask in the sensation for real. Then he walks slowly deeper into the empty fort.

It echoes his footfalls back to him. Sealand and his royalty cleared out the place when they left; they have not left a speck behind, not dirt, nor rust, nor any sign of a personal item forgotten in the rush. It's as spotless as it was the day England left it to the sea.

He can't curse Sealand for that. Not for tidying up after himself, not for acting in a more gentlemanly fashion than several other nations he might name.

He had planned to call out just about now. But the silence of the fort, broken only by the sound of the water outside, damps his words. He turns a corner, mute, and walks slowly on, still scanning his path for signs of continued habitation. Or signs of Sealand. Whichever comes first.

It's a bleak place. How it turned out such an eager, upbeat little nation as Sealand England isn't sure he'll ever know. He might have preferred it if the boy had been less full of himself. It's not as if one tiny military fort is anything to boast about. Sealand didn't even gain it in any honorable way; he stole it because it was forgotten, on the sidelines, useless. The method of acquisition reminds England quite a lot of France, now that he thinks about it.

But he can't curse Sealand for that, either, can he? Sealand was brought into being by the acquisition of his territory; he didn't gain it himself. It was one uppity Englishman and his family who stole it away. Sealand was stolen and born in the same instant, and cursing him for that is like Netherlands cursing his Princess Margriet for being born in Canada because her mother had gone there to escape the war.

He has searched the entire inside part of the fort and found it empty and silent. There is still the upper level, the one open to the sky; truly, if Sealand is still here, that's where he'll be. So England paces upwards and comes out into the salty air, staring around at the barren fort and the rolling water and, far away, his own coastline.

Sealand isn't here, either. England stands still for a moment, and then closes his eyes, half-expecting that as soon as he does he will find his ears assaulted by the high, piping voice of his little brother nation. As if his eyes are the two things keeping Sealand away.

In the distance, seabirds call. Waves wash at the sides of the fort, slow in the near silence, the deepest, calmest sound to be heard for miles. Patterns emerge in their gentle lapping as he strains his ears, regularity where he expected there to be none. He shifts his weight and his soles squeak against a floor dampened just so slightly with spray from the sea. His clothing rustles in a tiny, cooling breeze, which whispers past his ears, an almost indistinguishable sound beneath the hush of the waves. But among all these soft sounds, the background noises of life here off the English coast, there is no human voice.

So England opens his eyes.

Such a pointless search he's made, of a structure abandoned and insignificant. A pointless trip and a pointless reminiscence, because deep down he knows why he's alone here. America put his finger on it after his incident with the shuttle. Where can Sealand return to, here? A piece of land that used to be his, and before that was England's, and before that belonged to the crabs and fishes on the ocean's floor? It doesn't define the boy any more than a bulldozed, flattened London might define England. Personified by humans and defined by humans, they can only follow where the humans lead. Sealand's royalty led, and Sealand followed, and now he can never come back.

And England can't even curse Sealand for that. He is a puppy at their heels. England will never admit it outside his own head, but he himself is just such a puppy at the heels of his own governing officials. What they do, he must do. He can argue with them all he likes; he can rebel with the rebels, revolt with the revolutionaries, but at the end of the day he is always following a government again. They are all the same. And it's not the fault of the countries.

He is breathing too fast for someone who has spent the last ten minutes standing still in the open air. His nostrils burn with the cool air, and that pain makes his eyes water, and the muscles at his jaw line ripple when he clenches his teeth. It's a rage like a forest fire, slowly building its strength since the moment America confessed his intention to leave on the shuttle, and it's tightening and condensing until it's denser than the approaching neutron star. And he doesn't know how to express it, except in the clenching of his teeth and the balling of his fists and the breaths he can't control, and he doesn't know if he has ever felt its like before.

It holds him rigid there for moments, the nation caught in time as the waves lap around him, trapped like a fly in amber. He doesn't want to admit he is afraid. He doesn't want to think about the tight ball of fury in his chest because deep down he wonders if it might be something else. It's because America is always leaving, he tells himself; always breaking ties and rejecting England's mentorship and now trying to abandon the entire Earth, and always being so goddamn oblivious to everything else around him.

But at least America returned again.

England is finally unfrozen and he almost runs from the upper level, back down into the enclosed safety of the fort, as if, even now, there might be someone to see him in the open.

His footsteps ring louder now, quicker and harder and placed with furious intent, and England's voice joins them to bounce off the bleak walls. He has no reasons to curse Sealand. And so he does so, with every vulgar term he knows or can invent, running from the territory his little brother has left, desperate for his boat and the shore.

He can't pass the tears off as salt spray. They come too thick and fast and sudden, before he has even cleared the fort. They drown his expletives and his voice, and he boards and steers the sailing vessel with his head slightly bowed. The fort looms behind him, smaller and smaller with distance, but he keeps his eyes turned forward and ignores the shadow it casts in his head. It was a stupid trip. But he knows it would have come to pass eventually, even if he'd tried his hardest to put it off, to convince himself that Sealand was no concern of his. He has loved and hated Sealand by turns ever since the little principality came to be, and he cannot forget so easily.

He loves and hates the boy still, sailing slowly for the shore; it comes in waves, alternate sadness and gut-wrenching fury, but the stream of stifled tears never changes. They are not eloquent. He can't wish his little neighbor well through the sobs, or recite gentle poetry in his honor. He just remembers the vague image of a face and an excitable voice and a blue-and-white sailor suit, and thanks God above that there's no one on the shore when he beaches the boat and clambers out.

**End notes:**

- Really not fond of this one. England's a bit melodramatic, I think. Still, the only way for me to get better is to be bad first, so here it is anyhow.

- Changed the impending disaster from asteroid strike to neutron star collision due to events in later stories. Neutron stars are very very dense, created by certain stars when they go supernova, and would turn the Earth into nothing but a whole bunch of neutrons if one ever impacted with us. Those are the important bits you need to know.

- Princess Margriet: Dutch princess born in Canada during World War II. Her hospital ward was temporarily declared extraterritorial so that she could be solely Dutch when she was born.

- In reality, Sealand apparently has a problem with anybody straying too close and has shot at British ships for that reason. So I translated that into Sealand not liking England on his land. If contradicted in canon, I apologise.


	5. World Enough and Time

At 9:00 in the evening, France arrives outside England's door. Well, if he is honest, it's more about 9:05. He stands out of sight for a few moments, trying to decide what he will say to England once the door is opened. It's more difficult than he had assumed. On the one hand, he must say something that will prompt England to let him come in-quite a feat at any time-and on the other, it must not be something that will make him look foolish.

It takes him five minutes to think something up. Then he moves into plain sight of England's front door and knocks, loudly. "Angleterre!" he calls, sing-songing slightly. "Are you home?"

The answer is immediate. A second-story window slams open and the Englishman's head appears, framed in the gap. "What are _you_ doing here, stupid frog? Go away! Some of us are busy!"

France is unperturbed. He tilts his head to smile up at England. "Ah, Angleterre, you of all people should know there is no longer time for such unpleasantness."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

France shrugs. "It was your scientists who first spotted the traveling star, was it not? How much time did they estimate until it reaches us?"

England is still glowering. "Years," he says, "and I think that's plenty of time for you to shove off."

Then he slams the window. France shakes his head, shrugs, and takes a seat on England's front step. He can wait. It's just a shame that England has pulled the blinds; London is such a very drab city, and the Englishman's face would at least have been a change from all the greyness.

* * *

><p>At 10:00, the air has begun to cool, and France has got bored. He decides to try England again. Another knock on the front door, another sing-song call up to the window, and France waits for a response.<p>

There is a substantially longer delay this time. Then the window opens again. "Why are you still here!"

"Because you never asked me what I wanted," France says, and allows a slight pout.

"Will you go away if I do?"

"Perhaps."

"Fine, then. What do you want, Frenchie?"

"I would like to come in, and-"

England cuts him off. "Oh, don't go on, I can guess. No, you are not bringing your perverted fantasies into my house."

"Angleterre, don't pretend-"

"I've listened to you, now go away!"

The window slams shut again. France's words die in his throat. If only England were not in such denial, this would be so much easier.

* * *

><p>At 11:00, it begins to rain. The heavy drops plaster France's hair to his scalp, his clothes to his skin, and he begins to wish for more substantial shelter than the woefully small space beneath the eaves of England's house. France does not like the rain. It is beautiful from a distance, romantic under certain circumstances, but today it fails to be either. It is heavy and cold and France has a vague feeling it is probably dirty. That could also be his own mood, however. Standing in London, in the rain and the cold and the darkness, is bringing his boisterous spirits slowly, inexorably down.<p>

Perhaps he should have stayed in beautiful France. Even empty, Paris has a splendor to it that London does not, and it's probably not raining there, either.

But there are no humans in Paris now, nor fellow nations, and France isn't sure he would feel any less alone in his large house there than he would in this rain-soaked London street.

He gives up and knocks again on England's front door. "Angleterre! Wake up, Angleterre ..."

England is sleep-rumpled and annoyed when he opens the window this time. He does not stick his head out, but calls down without leaving the shelter of his room. "No," he says, preempting France's next question. "Sleep in the rain, for all I care."

Then the window closes again and the grumpy Englishman has vanished.

But the tiny exchange has given some life back to France, even so. There's nothing more fun, he thinks, than verbal battles with England. Or any battles with England, really. He would prefer to be inside the house with his rival, of course; opportunity presents itself much more indoors than it does out.

But if England will not let him in, then keeping his rival awake all night is the next best thing he can do.

* * *

><p>At 12:00, when France wonders if the rain is literally sucking the life from his body, he pounds on the door again. It takes longer to rouse England this time. France is becoming quite discouraged with the lack of response when the window finally bangs open.<p>

"Damn it, France! One more noise from out there and I will send Russia to Paris some dark night when you're fast asleep-!"

France has to admit he doesn't like the sound of it, though England trails his threat away before he can say what Russia might do. It seems Russia is always spying on France when he least expects it. Little Russian agents hiding out in French territory, sneaking back to report all they know to Russia, who, France has to admit, cuts a very intimidating figure when he's annoyed.

Then again, even Russia would constitute company. Company in Paris, where it is not raining or cold, and where he will not be trapped outside in the dark.

He can keep waiting, he supposes, and smiles up at England until the infuriated Englishman shuts the window again.

* * *

><p>At 1:00, England doesn't even open the window when France calls out. The rainwater is washing right through his skin, to his bones and his marrow, chilling him from the outside in. There are no voices in this part of London. An occasional car drives by, busy and impersonal, someone who still clings stubbornly to an Earth not yet destroyed. Far off, a distant voice rings once in a great while, but here it is quiet.<p>

The quiet is almost worse than the rain. France is a gregarious person by nature. He likes people, and he likes light and beauty, and here there seem to be neither.

But it's too late at night to bother going home again, where it will be only quieter still. He sits huddled under the eaves, trying to keep off the worst of the rain, his spirits chilled and lowered by water and lack of good company, and waits for the minute hand on his watch to make one more revolution.

* * *

><p>At 2:00, the noises of London blend and dissolve into one another, echoing in the ears of a half-awake France, still huddled on the front stoop. They're the makings of a nightmare; the patter of rain onto darkened streets, the rumble of distant cars, the call of voices away in the distance. Somehow it all sounds tortured and hopeless, a long string of sounds he registers but doesn't process, sliding through his sleep-fogged brain and becoming an endless repetition of life which somehow has no life in it at all.<p>

He is not truly asleep, but not awake enough to think of knocking at England's door again. It's an odd half-doze, uncomfortable and too light, hampered by his restlessness and his wet clothes and dripping hair.

* * *

><p>At 3:00, it's almost as if the end of the world is already here. The rain is slackening, but the distant sounds of London are not. They grow louder as dawn approaches, as the remnants of humanity rise and go about their empty days. Rumbling cars, hurrying feet, voices murmuring words France somehow cannot understand. It might be comforting to someone else. But to France, still wet and more than half sleeping, it is the sound of many many people with no light left in them. Day-to-day routines that mean nothing and are nothing and resound in his head louder than even the emptiness of Paris. Amplified by his own brain, they become more than they are, louder and more unreal, and they carry more despair than they should, because France is nothing if not emotionally-charged.<p>

* * *

><p>And at 4:00, it is England who comes to his rescue. He does so with a none-too-gentle kick in the ribs, rousing France from his uncomfortable sleep. Stiff and still cold, the unusually rumpled Frenchman straightens up and glances around, trying to ground himself and get his faculties together.<p>

England doesn't quite give him the chance right away. "Get up," he grates, grabbing France by the arm and hauling him to his feet. "Come on, hurry up. Leave your shoes and coat inside by the door, and try not to drip on the floor."

France blinks, caught surprisingly off-guard. "Quoi?"

England almost growls. "Just get inside, will you? You're cluttering up my doorstep."

France blinks sleep-fog out of his head and steps inside. The voice of England, with that annoyed tone and the quality of being filtered through his clenched teeth, is bolstering him even more than being in the warmth of England's house. He divests himself of shoes and coat and nothing else, because England stops him before he can remove his shirt, even though it's soaked through as well. "Leave it," he says, and turns away. "Don't move. I'll be back."

France is still a bit tired and confused, and so England is back before he's quite thought of going anywhere.

The Englishman hurls a clean shirt at France's feet as if he's hoping it'll turn into a knife along the way and impale France through the heart. "Change," he says simply.

He doesn't turn away, probably because he knows what France will try to do if he does. France is stuck changing his shirt alone, but he's already plotting what he'll do when England's guard is down. It is indescribably invigorating, being inside, faced with a challenge, a verbal sparring match and clean clothing.

Changed and slightly less frozen, France slowly gains back his customary air of smug charm. England's cold shouldering is putting life back into his body faster than anything else could, and he feels good enough to regain the infuriating smile he knows England hates. "See?" he says, smug. "I knew you would let me in!"

"I'll toss you straight back out if you're not careful," grumbles England, but he knows he's been beaten, and so does France.

The smug grin just grows bigger. France steps forward, one step, then two, pressing his boundaries and seeing how close he can get before England starts backing up. "Oh, no, no," he shakes his head. "There's so much we could do instead."

England gives France a warning glare. "Don't even think it, frog."

France heeds the look and pauses in his tracks, for the moment, at least. He keeps smiling. "'Had we but world enough, and time,'" he says, his voice grown slightly lyrical again. "Do you recognise it? It's one of your people's."

"Of course I do." The Englishman is clearly still annoyed about his interrupted sleep, and it shows in the surly voice and folded arms. "'And you should, if you please, refuse,'" he quotes back, locking a challenging gaze with France, "'Till the conversion of the Jews.' If you thought that particular poem would help you, I think you'll find you're wrong."

He turns without another word and walks toward the kitchen, where France can hear a tea kettle's shrill whistle rising to break the tranquil stillness of the house. He's given no orders to stay here, so France shrugs his shoulders and follows, supposing he'll be able to win at least a cup of tea from England, if nothing else.

He will have to remind England later about the bits of that poem more relevant to their current situation, the ones having to do with time's winged chariot and amorous birds of prey. He'll do it after the tea, just in case.

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong>

- The poem is called "To His Coy Mistress," and is written by British poet Andrew Marvell.

- If the one word of French in this is wrong, feel free to correct me.

- I didn't mean for this to turn out like it did. But France doesn't think you should be depressed at the end of the world, I guess.


	6. Here Comes the Sun

_Pre-story_: I'd just like to thank the people who have put me on favorites or alerts before I begin this chapter. I'm glad people are reading. Feel free to comment as well; I promise, I don't bite.

Now ...

* * *

><p>06.<p>

Here Comes the Sun

The air is faintly scented with morning dew today, as the condensation slowly evaporates away beneath the heat of the rising sun. It's a smell Spain can only describe as "soft"; a gentle fragrance lingering just on the cusp of perception, sometimes there, sometimes not, making him wonder every time he inhales anew. Will he catch it this time? Is he a fraction of a second too late?

He is languishing in his front garden, listening to the occasional sound of one of the few remaining residents of Madrid going about their day. He has his eyes shut, his face slightly upturned, but he doesn't need to look around to know what's going on. Occasionally, footsteps wander past on the street, but many many minutes elapse between one person's passing and the next. There is no great population in Madrid anymore. Spain, counting bird calls and the colors in his garden, doesn't think he truly misses their hustle.

He has, of course. None of the nations can forget their millions of residents with one clap of the hands. But it is nearly a year to the day since his first shuttle launched, and though he remembers it with perfect clarity, it is no longer such a clear and present pain. Nature and his remaining countrymen have dulled it for him.

He's lucky, he knows, and it makes him glad. France has taken the blow much harder, and even when he's not visibly moping it's easy to see it in him. It used to be unusual to see France truly depressed, but since the shuttles began to leave it has become almost unnervingly common. Spain does his best when he can, but even his cheery optimism doesn't always manage to bring France's mood up to a point at which he will begin making playful attempts to remove Spain's shirt. Spain supposes he can't win all the time, and simply saves his energy for the next attempt to pull France from one of his funks, hopefully with a tad more success.

He hasn't seen France for quite some time, now he considers it. The last time, nearly three weeks ago, he recalls the nation muttering something glum about how the Parisians had, upon departing, taken all their art with them and now Paris was unbearably drab. Then nothing; no phone calls or contact of any sort. Perhaps France has gone traveling in search of something to lift his spirits. Spain hopes so. An annoyed France is not something he particularly enjoys dealing with.

Another set of footsteps walks quickly along the street. Spain opens his mouth in a lazy yawn, not bothering to open his eyes, and tilts his head to better catch the sun on his face. He isn't overly worried about France; he'll come back eventually, feeling better, and then the cycle will begin again. For now ...

Spain is lying flat on his back before he knows what's hit him, his eyes flying open reflexively to gaze into the wide blue sky. His train of thought derailed, he clumsily tries to gather his faculties, one hand coming up to rub at the ribs on the right side of his body, which are sore from an impact he did not see coming. While he's still trying to sort through the last two seconds, someone steps into view over him.

Spain blinks at the body blocking his sunlight, and nothing more need be considered. He sits up slowly. "What was that for?"

A foot, recently guilty of delivering a kick hefty enough to send Spain sprawling, moodily stubs at the ground. A tiny fountain of soil springs up and falls back again. The owner shrugs. "I wanted you to know I was here."

Spain's lips twist into a miffed grimace. "You shouldn't kick your boss," he chides, though he knows it'll be ineffective.

"You're not my boss anymore, idiot. You should be glad I even come to see you."

"There's no one else you'd rather be with?" Spain suggests, and lets the annoyed expression slide from his face like Romano's bad-tempered insults are sliding off his back. He's used to this. It's an easy rhythm they fall into, he and Romano; it could be nothing else after hundreds of years. It's like that with a lot of them, he surmises, even the large superpowers like Russia, who seem to have no good relations with anybody. Maybe that's become a routine for Russia, too, just like Spain's tolerance of Romano's constant temper.

Spain infinitely prefers his lot, really. Having no good relationships with anyone ... Well, maybe that was why Russia lived in a place so cold. Maybe his own emotions had affected his climate, over the years since he had been born. Was that possible?

Romano jerks him out of his thoughts. "No!" he says with emphasis. Then he pauses. "I mean, yes there is." He sneers at this last, but Spain's watching his eyes and just keeps smiling because that sneer hasn't quite reached them. "I'd rather be with my dumb brother than here. I'd rather be with the _potato bastard_ than here."

A corner of Romano's mouth twists down a second after this last is out of his mouth, and the expression of distaste isn't lost on Spain. But Romano stares him down, daring him to comment, and it's clear he isn't going to take it back even if it is a blatant lie.

"Then why did you come?" Spain asks, giving up the staring match.

Romano pauses for a split second. "Tomatoes," he says grudgingly. "I'm out and you always have some."

Spain just grins a little wider. He's happy to have Romano over; the grimacing, sullen nation has an odd way of brightening Spain's days, no matter how foul a temper he's in when he arrives. Nobody else is quite the same; not France or Prussia, not even the always-upbeat North Italy, although that little nation comes a close second.

Spain scrutinises his erstwhile subordinate closely. Maybe it's because the sunlight looks brighter when contrasted with Romano's dark scowl. He glances up into the sky, then back again, testing the theory, but must stop when Romano reaches out and punches his shoulder hard. "Stupid Spain, what're you doing? Stop staring at me! Do you have the damn tomatoes or do I have to go grow them myself?"

"NO, no." Spain stands up and holds a hand down to Romano. The Italian nation ignores it and rises on his own, still scowling at Spain. "I've got some." He smiles again. "You can eat with me! Then I'll send you some more for the road as well, yes?"

Romano shrugs. "Yeah, okay."

Spain sighs a little. Perhaps the sun does seem brighter when viewed with Romano's scowling face also in sight; but Spain still doesn't like the look. "You should smile a little," he tells his subordinate candidly. "Cheer up! What's wrong?"

Romano gives him a long stare, brows drawn together in an indignant frown. "_What's wrong?_" he asks, emphasising each word as if Spain is a very slow child. He seems to be having trouble articulating his point in a way that will do it justice. "It's the end of the world, you jackass!" he says finally, his hands balling dangerously into fists. "Are you so stupid that you still didn't know?"

Spain takes a small step backwards, trying to gauge whether Romano might strike out again. "Of course I know," he says, trying to soothe his temperamental companion. "But it's not happening now." He lifts an arm, waves it, encompassing the house, his front garden, and the street on which they both stand. "Look! The city's still standing. People still live here. It's sunny! Why should I complain? It takes too much energy. You would feel better if you stopped sulking and started enjoying the weather and the meal we're going to have."

Romano is not impressed. "Nobody else is being as dumb as you," he gripes, starting toward the door with a tread that suggests the grass underfoot has recently committed a mortal sin. "Not even my idiot brother. At least he has the excuse of being too empty-headed to know what the hell is going on anyway, but you don't!"

"You really should cheer up," is Spain's only reply.

The only reason Romano doesn't slam Spain's own front door in his face is because the Spaniard catches it before it can click home. Romano is sulking too deeply to contest and lets go, allowing Spain to follow him through into the cooler interior of the house.

Romano ends up sitting around, spiraling deeper and deeper into his foul temper, while Spain cooks. It isn't exactly an unfamiliar state of affairs, harkening far back to when the Italian was still under Spain's care. Spain can't say he truly minds; in his mood, Romano is just as likely to ruin the meal as cook it correctly, and that would only make things worse for the both of them. And-Spain can't deny it-Romano, no matter how much he improves Spain's days when he initially arrives, does tend to try Spain's supply of patience occasionally.

South Italy is sitting at the table when Spain arrives with the food, his face still dour and long. Spain serves himself first, then doles out Romano's portion, and has been eating happily for several moments when he registers that his silverware is the only set moving.

He looks up from his plate, peering at his silent houseguest over the fork suspended near his mouth. "Romano? Don't you like the food?"

Romano blinks and shifts forward in his chair, as if Spain has pulled him from deep thought. One hand gropes for the untouched fork beside his plate. "'Course," he says, but lowly, as if it's a pain for him to admit.

Spain, taken aback, fails to notice his own food fall from his fork and land in the middle of his plate. The fork remains stationary just below the Spaniard's mouth. He watches Romano prod at the food with his own fork, sliding it around his plate, never raising a bite to his lips. Moments pass this way, with only the scrape of metal on china breaking the silence. Romano spreads the food all across his plate, stabs at the pieces with the prongs of his fork, then shoves it all back together and begins again. Spain fidgets with his own utensils, then lets them slide back onto his plate, leaving his food to cool with the air currents. His lazy, pleased mood is evaporating like the heat from his food, sucked away by the vacuum Romano's bad temper creates.

He grasps for his fork after a while and takes another bite, focusing on the taste. It is not overcooked or underdone, and were it not for the fact that it's cooled slightly, it would be perfect. Still, Romano isn't eating.

Spain lets it go on for a while, watching his subordinates eyes roam the room, from ceiling to table to his own shoes, then focus intently upon Spain for an almost inordinate amount of time, then shift hurriedly away again. Eventually, even the fork stops moving. Romano doesn't seem to notice the silence. Spain does.

"What's the matter, Romano?" he asks when his dampened mood has had all it can stand. "Should I make something different? Are you sick? Do you-"

Romano's reaction is swift and far more violent than Spain expects. His fork bangs on the side of the plate so hard Spain is surprised one, or quite possibly both, didn't shatter on impact. "There's nothing wrong!" he shouts, leaning forward to stare challengingly into Spain's face. "Okay? I came over to get some tomatoes, that's all! The only thing that's wrong is that you won't give them to me because you keep on talking and trying to feed me first, which isn't what I asked for!"

"But-"

"Shut up! Jackass!" Romano has jumped to his feet now, adding the screech of wood on wood to his tirade as he shoves his chair away. He is halfway around the table by the time Spain, hopelessly bewildered, has caught up enough to get to his own feet.

"Romano!" he calls as the Italian nation brushes past him. "Where are you going?"

"Where are they?"

"What?"

"The tomatoes, you idiot!" Romano comes to a screeching halt in the doorway and whirls to challenge Spain again. "I don't want to stay and eat your food! Just give them to me and I'll go!"

Spain approaches his subordinate with his palms placatingly held out. "Come on, cariño, at least finish the meal first ..."

Romano looks angry enough to strike Spain, and the Spaniard has no idea why. He generally doesn't, it's true; not until later when Romano decides to explain, in terms shot through with blue streaks, what set him off. Right now he is floundering for an explanation, trying to repair whatever damage has just been caused.

"I'm not hungry," comes the furious reply. "Where are they?"

Spain holds out for a moment, trying to figure out what he can say to talk Romano down, but a glare cold enough to freeze his blood puts an end to it. "At the back of the house," he sighs, and drops his hands dejectedly to his sides as his subordinate storms back past him. It's at these times, more than ever, that he wishes Romano was his northern brother. Italy never has outbursts like this.

The back door slams open. A moment later it slams shut again and Romano's hard footsteps clomp back through the house, weighted now with the tomato crates. Spain hears them pause in the kitchen and turns to enter that room himself. He finds Romano standing by his chair, the crates at his feet, looking down at the forgotten meal laid out across the table.

"You _should_ stay," Spain tries again, hopeful. "You'll get hungry on the trip home."

"I don't want to." The angry outburst has died to sullen embers, and the scowl adorning his subordinate's features has softened a little. Spain comes forward to stand by Romano's side.

"Why not?"

"I don't need you to make me dinner." Romano bends to pick up the crates again, but he's avoiding Spain's gaze. "I'll make my own food."

"But this is already-"

"_No!_"

Spain's shoulders droop slightly. There's finality in that tone, and as much as he dislikes being bested by a henchman, he also knows there's no arguing with Romano in this sort of a mood. He tags along behind the Italian nation as Romano carries his crates out of the house and back into the quiet streets of Madrid. They walk together for a while, their footsteps the only sounds, echoing off the concrete and buildings on both sides. At the corner, Romano pauses.

"Why are you still following me?"

"I like following you."

"Well, stop. Go home and eat your stupid dinner or something. I'm not gonna feed you even if you follow me all the way back to my house." He turns the corner, takes a few steps, and pauses to look back at a stationary Spain. "Well?"

It's probably true, Spain thinks, glancing from Romano to the house behind him. It would be Romano's house, after all. Romano could do anything he liked in his own house. And there was still a meal set out in his own kitchen which it would be a shame to let go to waste.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, you idiot!" Romano's flare of temper is there and then gone in the blink of an eye, but Spain's used to that, too. "Go on, leave me alone."

Spain turns, then looks back over his shoulder. "Smiling _is_ good for you," he tries, one last time. "It will improve your mood."

"Will it make you go away?"

Spain shrugs. "Maybe."

Romano grimaces at him, bearing his teeth slightly. "There. Go away."

Spain isn't so sure about it. It wasn't a happy smile, more of the sort you'd get if you were going after someone you hated with a chainsaw. Still ... Now that it's been and gone, the scowl on Romano's face _does_ seem a little less pronounced.

"If you come back sometime, we can finish our dinner," he offers, and his hopeful smile is much brighter.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Spain decides this flat statement is a yes. Since Romano immediately turns and walks quickly away, around the corner and out of sight, Spain has nothing to contradict it.

It was a cute smile, really, even if it was the angriest one Spain thinks he's ever seen. It also dismisses his theory about the sun being brighter next to Romano's scowl. It seems brighter than ever now, even though the scowl wasn't nearly so dark when Romano walked away. He shouldn't worry about it. It's warm and there's food on the table, and the only thing that could have made it better was if Romano had stayed. But he'll come back eventually, and when he does they'll be able to finish the entirety of their dinner.

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong>

- Again, I don't feel I did either Spain or Romano justice. Sorry. They're harder to write for than I figured.

- There is a reason for Romano being so angry. I'll probably cover it in his chapter, but I didn't feel there was a good way to get it across from Spain's point of view.


	7. And Drink the Moment Through Long Straws

07.

And Drink the Moment Through Long Straws

_Knock, knock, knock ..._

The tapping at his door is too slow to be Spain's. That, at least, is a comfort: The Spaniard has already been around once, inquiring, of all things, if Netherlands knew why South Italy was in a snit. No, Netherlands had said. By this time, if there'd been any activity at all in Spain's head, the idiot nation ought to have realised that coming to Netherlands with anything would be a futile action. Netherlands still sees red upon setting eyes on Spain and the infernal lack of rational thought of which the Spaniard seems capable only makes it worse. Netherlands had booted Spain right back out the door with a scowl and barely a pause for that one-syllable negative, and hoped he wouldn't return.

The knock suggests that he has not. So, Spain is ruled out. Possibly, since Spain has already come and gone, it may be South Italy trying covertly to find him and apologise, for lack of a better term. It won't be an apology, but it'll be the best the terminally impolite Italian can manage. Netherlands has seen it play out enough to know the routine.

But the knock is too gentle to be Romano's. Another blessing.

Since it's neither of these two nuisances, Netherlands risks a quick look. He glances out the window and meets the gaze of his sister, standing patiently on the front step.

He unlocks and opens the door without a word, allowing her entrance. She greets him warmly and he lets her hug him, pats her shoulder, and backs off. Then he asks her, "What are you doing here?"

She doesn't take offense. She's used to his reserved moods, and at least they don't get as bad around her now that they aren't being forced to live in the same house or with Spain.

He walks into the sitting room while he listens to her, and takes a seat on the couch. He lets her choose her own place.

She explains, "I got a message from France today. He sent it with Pierre."

"So?"

"He's been asked to pass a message along from America."

Belgium is making sure to get all the details out of the way, at least. He's willing to sit and wait for that, at least, because he likes having all the details.

"America's up with Canada and some others. He wondered if I wanted to come stay for a while with them."

"Well?"

"I want to go," she says. "But do you?"

"He didn't ask me," Netherlands shrugs, indifferent.

Belgium gives him a slightly pleading glance. Netherlands can't fathom why she wants him to come so badly; they've never worked together well in the same house, and even Canada working as a middleman might not manage to fix that. Neither of them like to spend their lives fighting with each other, like England and France seem to. Why does she seem intent upon ruining a visit to Canada's by bringing Netherlands along anyway?

"What?" he asks the question allowed when the gaze remains on his face too long for his comfort. "You know Canada and America, you'll be fine on your own."

She seems a bit hesitant here, but she gathers herself nicely. "You know, it's May."

He gives her an annoyed look. "Of course I know that."

"You forgot last year."

Netherlands stares. "What are you talking about?"

"See?" She bats his question back in his face with her own. "You did forget."

"I know it's May. I do have a calendar, you know."

"Are the tulips blooming yet?" she asks instead of answering, and, damn, it takes Netherlands a moment to put the pieces together.

"Verrek." He hisses the curse under his breath, and there isn't enough vehement feeling in the world to adequately express his anger at himself. Belgium's right, now he knows what she's on about. He had forgotten last year, caught up in the whirlwind of people fleeing Earth, caught up in the worry, caught up in the excitement, caught up in the fear. And he's nearly forgotten this year, too.

He's remembered the tulips themselves. He grows them in his garden still, because they're one of the aspects of his ebbing culture he can keep alive. But he's fallen into that all-too-common trap he's always trying to avoid, and he has forgotten Canada.

The gift of ten thousand tulip bulbs by his government to Canada's has stopped. There is no government left to give by now, and none left to receive. But Netherlands has been unforgivably slack, unforgivably _stupid_, to let his own gift fall by the wayside. The Dutch nation is still grateful for Canada's help in World War II; he will be so, until he can forget how it feels to slowly starve, or to watch his people shot in the streets. War isn't new to Netherlands, but seventy years isn't so long when you've lived for hundreds, and Netherlands can still recall it clearly.

He used to bring tulips to Canada, too. Not as many as his government gave. But he'd pick them out himself, the best of the best, and bring them in person to Canada's front door. It's a small gesture of thanks, but it's the best Netherlands feels comfortable with, and he thinks Canada understands what he's been trying to say.

But he's forgotten. And somehow, for some reason, Belgium has not.

He stands up. "Fine," he says, his tone clipped by his own fury with himself. "Get ready."

"Now?" She's surprised.

"Yes!"

She backs off. She can see he's in a temper. That's good, at least. She vanishes, meekly, and Netherlands supposes it's to go get her things. She'll be a while. Netherlands is content to wait.

He goes out to the garden. He's planted his supply of bulbs this year and they have sprung up into multicolored glory, and he stands for a moment to survey them. He can't bring Canada bulbs this time for the Canadian to plant himself. But he'll bring him tulips again, at least.

He chooses carefully, deliberating over each choice, his temper focusing his attention like nothing else can. He takes so long that Belgium is back before he's through, and when he looks up finally, having transplanted his last flower into the pot for transport, it's to find her standing in the doorway, watching.

He picks up the transport pots and stands, walking past her without a word. He can hear her following. She'll try to talk to him, eventually, he knows that. She is too cheerful a person not to. But she'll wait at least long enough for his temper to cool from its boil.

* * *

><p>Netherlands has never been one to let things go quickly. So the pair of nations remains in silence for the duration of their trip; they are walking the last way to Canada's house when Belgium finally speaks.<p>

"I didn't mean to make you angry."

Netherlands is shaking his head before she has even finished speaking. He knows she's sincere about it, she always has been kind that way, but he doesn't want to hear it. It's not her fault. She ought to know it's not.

But she's always been one for reassurance. So he says, "you didn't," and hopes it's enough. It is for him.

She looks at him for a while longer. He can feel her eyes, even when he's not looking into her face. He keeps his gaze trained on the street ahead of him because the last thing he needs it to trip and fall now, with his arms full of flowers. She seems to take the hint after a while and averts her eyes, and it is like a physical pressure taken off of Netherlands's shoulders. He sighs slightly, readjusts the flower pots in his arms, as, up ahead, Canada's house comes into view.

Belgium is first up the steps, unencumbered as she is. She rings the doorbell and they stand together on the front porch, Belgium patient, Netherlands shifting the flower pots in his arms, slightly nervous. The wind rustles their hair, gentle and soothing and cool. It wafts the scent of the flowers into Netherlands's face, and even now, the smell helps to calm him slightly.

"Nederland." Belgium's voice is gently coaxing. He turns his head and looks at her, raising an eyebrow. "Why are you so nervous? You know Canada won't be angry with you."

"I would be angry with me," he says in slight annoyance, shifting the flowers again.

"You should be glad Canada isn't you, then." Her voice has a slight hint of humor to it now, but she isn't really trying to make him laugh. She's just trying to reassure him. Everything's fine, she's trying to say. Just because sixty percent of the world's urban-dwelling people are now floating fast asleep in deep space is no reason to grow bitter.

That's Belgium. And it's why he's never been able to understand her.

The slight creak of the door almost startles Netherlands, whose eyes turn quickly back that way. Canada is framed in the doorway, smiling at them. "I'm sorry," are his first words. "I was upstairs with-"

"Holland!"

The enthusiastic cry emerges from the house behind Canada, and a moment later another head is peering over Canada's shoulder. Canada grimaces slightly, but not with any malice, and gestures with his head at the new face. "I was with America," he finishes. "I didn't hear the bell. Come on in."

He steps back, forcing America out of the doorway, and Belgium and Netherlands enter. America is on them before they can so much as unbutton their coats, shaking Belgium's hand and attempting the same for Netherlands. America stands with his hand out for a moment before Canada, the corner of his mouth just so slightly upturned, gestures to Netherlands's full arms.

"Oh, right," America says. "Want me to take those, Holland? I'm sure I can find somewhere to put them, even though the whole country's covered in these things already."

Netherlands grimaces. If he hadn't forgotten, he would have come before all of Canada's tulips began to bloom. He shakes his head at America and turns to Canada, offering him the flowers. "They're for you," he says shortly, very aware of America's curious stare from off to the side. "But they're late. And there's not enough to make up for missing last year. I would have brought you bulbs, but-"

Canada gently cuts him off with a raised hand and another smile. "It doesn't matter," he says, and relieves Netherlands of some of the flowers so the Dutch nation isn't struggling to carry them all. "Last year was a bad year here, anyway. The tulips probably grew better over there than they did here."

Netherlands hasn't said that he's sorry, and Canada hasn't said it's all right. But the nation has a way of being gently comforting even when he doesn't say anything overt, and for Netherlands, who doesn't like apologising at the best of times, that's perfect.

Grudgingly, he accepts America's still-proffered hand, gripping tightly and then releasing, quick, firm, simple. Canada is carrying the flowers off towards the kitchen. Netherlands follows with his own armload, leaving Belgium and America to follow or leave as they choose.

Canada is placing pots on the window sill when Netherlands arrives, and the Canadian relieves him of his own burden as he enters. As he places pots, he says curiously, "I'm surprised you brought Belgium. She doesn't usually come with you."

Netherlands shrugs. "America sent her an invitation for some gathering up here."

He knows the moment he looks at Canada's confused expression that something is a bit off. The nation is not angry, just slightly off-put, although he continues moving as if nothing is wrong. "He didn't tell me about it."

Netherlands is still on his guard. "We'll head back, then. My house needs cleaning anyway."

He isn't disappointed, really. Just slightly surprised at the sinking feeling in his chest when he thinks of how long it will be before he'll get to see his Canadian friend again.

But Canada is shaking his head almost before Netherlands is done speaking. "No, no, that's not what I meant. You can stay here as long as you'd like. I've got room enough. I'm just surprised, that's all."

Netherlands shrugs. "It was America's idea," he says. "He just didn't think it through."

Canada smiles. Netherlands wasn't truly trying to be funny, but it strikes the Canadian that way nevertheless. "I'll show you your rooms when I'm finished here," he says. "America's staying for a few more days too."

Netherlands isn't overly sure about how he will cope spending time with Canada's boisterous southern brother, remembering the attempted handshake and excited greeting in the front hall. But then again, he used to live with Spain and Belgium, and that was for a much longer duration than he will be spending here.

And it makes Canada happy; he can see that in the nation's light step and posture. The northern nation seems to be standing straighter now than he was when he first opened the door to Netherlands. Canada is one of those nations that enjoys the company of others.

And it is only for a few days, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong>

- I don't know anything about Holland or Belgium as characters, at all. And I apologise for that.

- Sorry for the long wait. Had to deal with a bit of discouragement and writer's block, but here it is now.


	8. Too Proud to Turn Around

08.

Too Proud to Turn Around

Veneziano's house is half-empty and far too clean. The emptiness is not strictly unusual. The Italian spends more time with the German nations and Romano than he does in his own home, and various items of clothing and bedding disappear and reappear as he needs them.

But the only time the house is truly neat is if Germany happens to be staying over; the almost compulsively neat German nation always tidies it up. Italy himself works on a clean-as-needed basis in his own house if not in other people's, leaving the place in a near perpetual state of partial cleanliness. And this isn't partial.

Romano strides through the place, calling in annoyance for his brother, gritting his teeth against the thoughts in his head. No blankets on the bed. None of Italy's little trinkets and prizes on shelves or tables. No dishes in the sink. The doors locked up tight, opening only under the coercion of Romano's house keys and left gaping wide in the southern Italian's wake. And in the kitchen cupboards, not a stray pasta noodle in sight.

This is what stops Romano's voice in his throat. He stands for several seconds before the bare cupboard, raking it with his eyes as if he might spot something he originally overlooked. But there's nothing there.

For a moment, a windswept, breathless moment, he is confused, his stomach dropping straight through the floor. He can only feel relief, then, when the second's panic is replaced by fiery anger. Italy likes to leave notes. Notes and answering machine messages, texts, e-mails, pen-and-paper letters, anything to keep in touch with the people he loves. He likes to talk. He is always talking-about where he's been, where he is now, where he's going. But not this time. He has remained unusually tight-lipped about this, leaving Romano standing stupidly in an empty kitchen, wondering where he's gone.

Romano is burning all those letters Italy didn't send, reducing them to ash with his fury. And he likes it, because it's far easier to focus with a ball of rage in his stomach than it is with a ball of panic in his throat. The only person who could coax Italy away without so much as a goodbye is that potato bastard, he knows. He can see it now: Germany coming to Italy's house, convincing him to leave, stopping only long enough to collect Italy's belongings and straighten up the house. Messing with Italy's head like he always does, stringing him along to God knows where.

Romano does pause long enough to slam the cupboard door shut, because it makes him feel better to know that he can be just as attentive to cleanliness as Germany can. He's out the door almost before the cupboard has actually closed. He doesn't see the wood of the door crack with the force of its impact with the frame.

* * *

><p>Germany's door is locked. Romano pounds on it with one hand, ringing the doorbell with the other, for ten minutes straight, screaming obscenities and threats all the while. The din doesn't get him anywhere, and he stands outside for a few more minutes, seething, before he remembers Italy blurting out, one day long ago, where Germany keeps his spare key.<p>

For once, Romano is grateful for Germany's military adherence to routine. The key is exactly where Italy said it would be, and he opens the front door and lets himself in, leaving it swinging behind him.

Germany's house is a royal mess, and that almost sends Romano up the wall anew. After hundreds of years of existence, he can unfortunately tell the difference between Italy's clutter and Prussia's, and this is definitely Prussia's. It suggests straight away to Romano that Prussia is here and living comfortably-but by the same token, Germany is not. The scattered food containers and bottles, the occasional abandoned book, the television blaring from the next room, these are all things Germany would never let slide in his house. And Prussia could not have made all this mess in a day.

So, Germany is gone. No doubt Italy has followed at his heels, like a stupid puppy, brainless and wagging his tail all the while.

Romano storms through the cluttered house anyway, calling for the potato bastard, for Italy, and finally for Prussia. None of the nations appear. Prussia is living here, but he must be out at the moment, and there's no sign left of the other two.

Romano doesn't lock the door this time, and wills thieves to loot the house of every last crumb as he leaves.

* * *

><p>Romano can find no sign of Belgium or Netherlands. Japan, when Romano calls, offers sympathy but no new information. Romano hangs up quickly and sits for a few moments, thinking and beginning to wonder why he can't remain angry.<p>

But all those imaginary letters, the ones Italy hasn't sent, the ones Romano cannot read, the ones that hold all the explanations, are dust and ashes and he can't get them back. His annoyance and anger has sustained him thus far, but it's burnt itself out in the silence of his house. He is still holding his phone. His eyes flick from number to number on its pad, connecting imaginary dots, resting briefly on the numbers that will, if pressed, ring a similar phone in the far away little house that belongs to Japan. He finds himself wishing he hadn't brushed off the Japanese man's comforting platitudes so quickly, with so little thought. Japan is nothing if not soothing, and Romano can still almost hear the Asian nation's mellow tones in his head, breaking the monotonous silence and calming rattled nerves.

Almost.

Romano drops the phone before he can start to dial and rises from the chair, so quickly he almost sends it over backwards. He doesn't need Japan's comforts, he tells himself, and this time he has to fight hard to bring the hot anger to the surface. He _doesn't_ need Japan to tell him everything is fine, like a parent soothing a child to sleep after a nightmare. It's not as if he cares for Italy anyway, but he hates how Germany is always dragging him off to all corners of the globe.

He'll go to Spain. The Spanish man is too upbeat, and patronising, and a jackass no matter which way Romano views him, but he likes North Italy for reasons Romano pretends not to know. If anybody knows where his stupid younger brother's gone, Spain will.

He slams the door behind him as he leaves, and it's easy to be angry again, because he still remembers the last time he went to visit Spain. He can still almost smell the food the Spaniard had laid across the table. Can hear the impotent pleas to just stay for dinner, like Romano needs someone else to feed him, like he can't feed himself.

He crushes the other thoughts, the ones that might have been flattered, the ones that might have been gentled, the ones that might have been grateful. They're there, in the back of his mind, niggling at his conscience, but he has grown good at pretending they don't exist. Especially now, with the departure to parts unknown of Italy and Belgium, leaving him abandoned and alone with people like stupid Spain and uselessly soothing Japan.

* * *

><p>Spain opens the door to Romano mid-knock. The Italian is greeted by a smiling olive-skinned face, and he tells himself it's only reflex that stops him from continuing the motion and punching Spain in the mouth. It's not really important right now, anyway.<p>

"Romano!" Spain begins, seeming not to notice Romano's clenched fist, which remains in the air for a few seconds after he has stopped it moving. "Did you come back for-?"

"You know where my stupid brother went, don't you?" Romano interrupts without batting an eyelash, and shoves past Spain into the house. The Spaniard follows on his heels, fairly unperturbed, and waits until Romano has perched on the edge of a chair to speak.

"Don't you?" he echoes back. "I thought-"

"Just tell me!" Romano growls.

Spain, instead of answering, rummages through a pile of papers on a table and brings Romano an envelope. "Didn't you get one? I thought America sent them to-"

Romano grabs it from him and opens the unsealed flap, pulling out a hastily-scribbled note in America's hurried hand:

_Best party of the year, hosted by yours truly (America), but not in America because there's no way I can give everybody a room in my house, so Canada offered to do it instead. Show up at his place whenever, he's got plenty of room. Also, bring your own drinks._

It's anything but formal, anything but informative, and very near illegible. It looks as if America either wrote it in a very great hurry or under the influence of some drinks of his own. It tells Romano the where, but not the why, and he throws it at Spain's feet like the trash it is.

It hasn't hurt him, he tells himself. The post is nonexistent now, and they send letters with the nations animals, taking the risk that the letter might not arrive with the messenger. It happens sometimes. It's not surprising that Romano hasn't received one.

But he knows it wasn't the messenger's fault, and he retaliates against that the only way he safely can. _Run away, Veneziano,_ he thinks, darkly, and watches Spain bend and pick up the letter, tossing it back to the table. _You've finally figured out you're not wanted here._

A hand lands on Romano's shoulder. He straightens up as if he's just been shocked and shrugs violently, but Spain, unusually, doesn't let go. He is standing in front of Romano, in full range of any wrathful fist, but he doesn't seem afraid. "You said you would stay for dinner next time you came here," he says, and he's not smiling, and his voice is unusually level. He's reminding, not coaxing, not provoking, not convincing.

The tone closes Romano's mouth on any angry retort. Spain guides him upright, then transfers his hand to between Romano's shoulder blades as a gentle guide into the kitchen. Romano shrugs him off again and walks on his own, but goes where Spain wants him to go, and doesn't verbally protest. Spain's smile returns as he gestures to a chair at the table, and Romano takes a seat to watch the Spaniard begin to cook.

Spain hums cheerfully as he works; his ebullience can never be suppressed for long periods, but Romano doesn't seem to mind. He's sitting with his chin on one hand, watching Spain work, almost unwilling to let himself calm down. It's hard to relax, even here. Spain is doing nothing to put his hackles up, but letting them down makes him feel too naked, too vulnerable. Especially here. Because inside his head, deep inside, in those places he hates to let others see, he's never hated Spain. Spain is stupid, and he is oblivious, and he is too cheerful; but he's a constant, has nearly always been so, and he's not cruel.

And he's making Romano dinner, and the southern Italian knows he doesn't have the willpower to walk out in the middle of this one. His pride wants to do so, his pride and his self-protectiveness, the part of him that is determined that he does not have feelings to hurt. But he's been wandering all day from house to empty house, in silence but for his own calls and the sounds of distant cars; silence but for Japan's voice, like a virus breaking down his emotional walls; silence but for Spain's song.

Oh, he's truly been trapped this time.

Spain brings the food over after a while, steaming hot and strongly scented, and he waits for Romano to pick up his fork and knife before he even touches his own. He's not making the same mistakes he made last time.

So Romano starts to eat first. He tries to eat like he always does; like the food has done him a mortal wrong and he's punishing it with every bite he takes. But it's hard, with Spain's cooking tonight. Romano's not sure if the Spaniard has done something different with it this time, or if it's just his own stupid, wound-up brain getting in his way, but the warmth and aroma and tang of the food on his tongue is soothing in and of itself. Romano doesn't see the way his shoulders marginally relax over the course of the dinner. He just sees the way Spain's eyes grow progressively brighter as he eats, as if something is bolstering his spirits as the pair of them sit there.

"You can come with me," the Spanish man says, just as Romano finishes swallowing the last bite of his food.

The Italian sits up straighter in his chair, folds his arms on the table. His "Where?" comes out much too short and clipped for him to pretend it doesn't mean anything.

"To Canada's house. I'm going to go. You can come."

"I don't want to come."

He glowers over Spain's left shoulder because he can't tell the lie straight to the Spaniard's face. It'll be lonely here without Spain. He's far too frightened to think about it in depth, but far too proud to admit that even in his own head, and he's beginning to wish he hadn't taken Spain's food after all. He's even having trouble admitting that, though, with the tastes still on his tongue.

Spain sighs. "I _want_ you to come," he tries, in a slower, articulated voice.

"I won't!"

"And if you do," the Spaniard continues, "You won't have to be my henchman anymore."

Spain puts it out like honey to catch a fly because he knows being a henchman has always annoyed Romano. It's a stupid offer, and it's hurtful and tempting, and while he tries not to wonder if Spain truly doesn't want him, he takes the opportunity it presents anyway. "Fine," he says, too quickly, and watches Spain's face break into that wide, pleased grin again. Spain _is_ stupid, and he's confusing to boot. But he is offering Romano a place to go, and someone to go with, and Romano is almost too tired by now to refuse. He's going to follow Spain just like Italy at Germany's heels, he thinks, half-disgusted. Like a puppy afraid of being abandoned.

It's pathetic, and weak ... and it's the truest description he knows.

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong>

- "I think this is bad" is beginning to seem like a phrase with no meaning around these notes, isn't it? Still, it holds ...

- As usual, if characterisation is grossly off, please let me know.

- Also, any suggestions as to which character ought to go next will be appreciated. Exclude Prussia and Canada, though, because I already know basically where they come in the lineup. Everybody else is fair game.


	9. Gone Like Yesterday

09.

Gone Like Yesterday

"How long's it been since we actually sailed a nice long voyage across the sea?"

"Not as long as you think."

Denmark and Norway step onto the deck of the moored ship, barely pausing to adjust to the sway. They no longer sail the seas for a living or conquest, but they've never lost their touch.

"Sve, really, I can carry my own-"

"S'okay. 'Ve already got it. Jus' keep an eye on Hanatamago."

"Do you think months of having dog droppings thrown into the ocean will affect the ecosystem?"

"Why do you care, Denmark? It'll only last another few years anyway."

Finland, Sweden and Iceland walk at Norway's heels, their feet echoing across the wooden deck of the ship as they go below to store their belongings.

"You c'n sleep here." Sweden places Finland's belongings gently onto one of the lower bunks. Finland takes a breath, almost as if he might protest the placement, but Sweden tosses his own bags onto the bunk just above and gives Finland a curious stare. Finland closes his mouth.

"Norway, is that your bunk?"

Norway nods. Immediately, both Iceland and Denmark make a move towards the bunk just overhead, nearly colliding. They pause, neither willing to give the other leeway, and get into a minor staring match.

Sweden catches sight of this and digs in his pocket for a coin, which he holds up to them and flips into the air. Iceland calls first, for tails, and the pair watch it until it falls to the deck-_cling_-with the heads side showing. Iceland grumbles to himself as Sweden retrieves the coin, and Denmark tosses his bags up to the bed above Norway's.

Having done that, Denmark, Norway and Iceland head back above deck, still with many things to do, and their footfalls disappear from the wooden deck. Behind them they leave Finland, looking quietly around the empty cabin, and Sweden, with his hands resting on the smaller Nordic's shoulders.

"You comin'?" Sweden asks lowly.

"Yes," Finland replies. But he leaves Sweden at the door and paces down the bunkroom, counting quietly to himself. He pauses for a moment at the far end, then turns slowly, a full half-turn. Sweden faces him across the long empty room, and Finland comments, "There's going to be an extra bunk."

Sweden nods shortly. "So?"

Finland retraces his steps, quicker this time, as if he doesn't want to be here. He passes Sweden who falls in behind him. "There would have been enough room for Sealand."

They emerge into the clear, cool morning, and Finland heads for dry land again. He's halfway across the gangway when Sweden stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Finland turns his head, but his feet remain in place.

"D'you want 'im t'die here, then?"

Sweden watches Finland breathe, in, out, in, out, as his face slowly, silently crumples. The Swede guides him forward with a hand over his shoulders and looks straight ahead, and listens to Finland speak.

"Of course I don't," the Finn says, shaking his head, pulling his faculties together as best he can. "But at least here we would ..."

And they step off onto the dock.

* * *

><p>"I like this boat." Hungary steps lightly from dock to gangway, looking around at the anchored ship. "I won't have any trouble throwing Prussia overboard if he annoys me."<p>

Austria carefully boards behind Hungary, arms and hands full almost to overflowing. He takes a measured breath before speaking, making sure his voice betrays none of the strain of carrying the load. "Don't," he entreats. "It will throw our whole routine out of balance. That's the last thing we want aboard ship."

"If he annoys me," says Hungary matter-of-factly, "he's going over the side." She glances back at her brown-haired companion, who is placing each foot with the delicacy and care of a tightrope walker and whose expression is some odd cross between annoyance and mortal anxiety. She can't help a giggle.

"What?" Austria asks sharply, trying to keep his balance with full arms and the swaying deck beneath him.

Hungary speeds up, quickly disappearing below into the bunkroom. Austria does his level best to follow, allowing his jaw to clench as he makes his way across the deck. He hasn't gotten halfway across before Hungary is suddenly at his side again, relieving him of his burdens.

"Stop that!" he chides her. "I'm fine."

She doesn't listen, and pries his luggage from him with ridiculous ease. "Come on," she says. "We have other things to do too, you know."

He follows, empty-handed, and they enter the bunkroom. He takes a quick glance around: The Nordics have stored their luggage near the door on deck. Farther back, an extraordinarily messy bed is strewn with Hungary's possessions. He hears her put his own things down on the bunk below her own, but he's too distracted to watch her.

Hungary is not obsessively clean like Germany, not by a long shot. But she is rarely this messy, even when she's in a hurry. She's very efficient. She ought to have been able to at least put things down neatly before coming back up.

He voices this concern, simultaneously stepping across to rearrange his own luggage to his liking. "You should keep your bunk more neatly."

She gives him a look. He's used to Hungary's scathing glances, but this one is unusual in its ferocity. He empties his hands and turns fully toward her, in some slight confusion. "What?" he asks, and it comes out clipped and annoyed.

"I'll have plenty of time to straighten it up when we sail." She turns and heads back up on deck, followed by a bewildered, still slightly annoyed Austria.

"It makes you look like Prussia."

Her expression freezes for a moment, as does she. Austria overtakes her and has a few steps head start by the time she finally gets moving again. "_What_ did you say?"

What he said, he begins to realise, was not very clever of him. He widens his stride, searching for a compromise between saving his pride and saving his skin. He is remembering painful fights with Hungary as younger nations: Lots of futility and bleeding and ...

He steps onto the dock. Seconds later, so does Hungary.

* * *

><p>"Germania! Germania! Dove sei? Germania!"<p>

Italy is running, speaking rapid-fire Italian and worried clean out of his wits. He half-stumbles onto and across the gangway, adjusting to the sway of the moored ship as he searches for Germany on the empty deck.

The military figure emerges from the bunkroom at his desperate call, just in time to catch Italy's full weight and momentum in his chest. He stumbles backwards slightly, then catches himself. Italy, more unfortunate, lands on his behind and is talking all the way down.

Germany grits his teeth and interrupts the string of babbling words. "Italy! Calm down and get up! What's the matter with you?"

"Germania," wails the little Italian as he scrambles haphazardly to his feet, "Prussia dice-"

"I said, calm down!" Germany interrupts again, aware that the Italian words indicate his annoying fellow hasn't followed the order yet. He waits, slightly impatient, while Italy catches his breath. Once Italy is breathing more normally, Germany quickly steps forward to straighten his rumpled, sea spray-dampened clothing. "Now," he says to a wrinkle-free Italy, "tell me what's going on. Why haven't you loaded your luggage yet? We sail tomorrow morning and we won't wait for you."

"I was going to bring it! But I wanted to come with Prussia."

"Well then, why are you here now?"

"Because," Italy begins, and Germany can already see the nervous little nation riling himself up again, "Prussia isn't coming with us!"

Germany's eyes narrow in annoyance. "Then you should have brought your luggage here anyway. If he doesn't want to come, then he won't come. Go back and get your things." Germany is turning towards the bunkroom before he is even through speaking. Partly, perhaps, it's to hide the surprise on his own face.

From behind him rings Italy's voice. "But Germany!" he calls. "We can't leave him all alone here!"

"We're not leaving forever, you idiot," Germany says through gritted teeth. "We're leaving lots of people behind, and most of them aren't nearly as lazy and slobbish as he is."

"But we'll have an extra bunk," Italy says.

Germany is walking away, wondering why on Earth Italy might care about something like that. "If you really want someone else to come," he tosses over his shoulder, "then go ask. But I want your luggage and the luggage of anyone else you invite on the ship by nightfall."

"Yes sir!" The hollow sound Italy's shod foot rings from the deck of the ship lets Germany know without looking back that Italy is trying his best at a salute. Then the Italian turns and his feet clatter back across the deck, towards the gangway. "I'll go find someone! I promise I'll be back before ..."

He leaps onto the dock. Behind him, still aboard ship, Germany just shakes his head and continues stowing things.

* * *

><p>"West, I am way above manual labor, you know. You shouldn't be making me do this."<p>

"You'll live."

Germany is first back onto the gangway, followed at a distance by a long-suffering Prussia, who is carrying one of Germany's smallest duffle bags. Germany himself has his arms full and is taking much more of the burden.

"I shouldn't have to do this," Prussia complains as he walks behind Germany. "I'm not even going. I should be back at the house, gracing whoever's still there with my awesome presence."

"There _isn't_ anyone there," Germany sighs.

"Then the house will get a full blast of awesomeness and be loads better when you get back."

"Bruder," Germany says with a glance over his shoulder, "sei still."

There are a few welcome moments of silence as they stride into the bunkroom and begin to stow the last of Germany's luggage. Then Prussia says, "This trip is going to be so boring without me there to make it great, you know."

Germany growls and turns his head to glower at his brother. "If you must talk," he says, "why don't you tell me why you bothered accepting the invitation if you weren't going to come?"

Prussia shrugs breezily. "I decided I didn't want to make the trip. I can see Canada whenever I want, all on my own."

"France and Spain will be there."

Does that give Prussia pause? Germany stares carefully at his brother's face, looking for any sign of the Prussian's relent.

"That means there's only going to be sissy drinks, then."

It clearly has given no pause at all. Germany glances forlornly up at the darkening sky for a split instant, praying for assistance with his stubborn, self-centered big brother, then looks back to that nation again.

"Italy's coming."

Does he see a change in Prussia's face? Germany knows Prussia holds a soft spot for the little Italian. But he also knows that if Italy hasn't convinced Prussia to go, then he, Germany, probably won't be able to either.

It's worth a try. A harder try than his pride will have him admit. Because maybe he doesn't want Prussia to stay, even though it's only a party, and it probably won't be that long, and he'll be returning soon anyway.

But that's stupid. And even if it weren't, there has been no change in the Prussian's face.

Prussia opens his mouth to speak, and is interrupted just then by a clatter of feet on the gangway and a pair of excitable voices Germany doesn't want to hear.

The one is calling out to him: "Germany! We're back, and we have all our things and it isn't dark yet! Germany?"

And the other is chattering obliviously to Italy as if nobody else is speaking: "There totally hasn't been a good party in, like, forever! ... Oh, no. Is _he_ coming too?"

This last is in reference to Prussia, who straightens up at the insult and faces Poland down. "Hey! Are you talking about the awesome me?" He glowers down at Poland, whom he has a couple of inches on, standing as haughtily as he is. "No," he says, "I'm not coming, because I don't feel like attending something less awesome than me. I'll have my own party and it will be ten times better than the one you're going to."

Poland huffs. "You totally didn't get invited, did you?"

Their argument bores into Germany's head like a very long, sharp nail. He grits his teeth and begins to wonder why in the world he told Italy to just invite _anyone._ Austria's going to have things to say about this too, he's sure. But Poland and Italy are both loaded down with their luggage, and Italy will probably break down again if he rejects the Italian's guest now.

He's exchanged his slobbish, self-centered brother for the excitable, self-centered Poland, and he's dearly wishing he hadn't.

"You two, just be quiet!" he calls over the rising din of Poland and Prussia's annoyed argument. "Poland, if you're coming, put your things away and get some sleep. We're sailing early in the morning and we won't be held up. Prussia ..." He pauses for a moment, looking at his elder brother, trying to figure out what to say: _You're coming with us, no questions,_ or _I'll let you have the run of the house for a week when we get back,_ or even _please._

What he says is, "If you're not coming with us, move out of the way."

And Prussia does, grumbling and complaining and apparently unhurt by the callous remark covering Germany's confusion, and gradually the boat settles down again.

* * *

><p>And in the morning, things are busy. The Nordics are the first to arrive: The sailors, the crew, they scurry to ready things to set sail as early as possible. They never have a spare moment for quite a while, and maybe that's a good thing, because it keeps Finland from thinking. Sometimes.<p>

And sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes he'll pause for a moment and wonder about the little lost Sealand, contemplate and stare out across the wide open waves as if he might see the fort where the little nation used to dwell.

In these moments it's Sweden who always comes to his rescue, with a surprisingly gentle hand on the shoulder, a wordless encouragement and prod to work again. His presence never falters over the course of the morning as he guides Finland past those little moments.

And then the passengers begin to arrive.

* * *

><p>"... Don't think I want to leave."<p>

"Why not?"

Hungary and Austria board first, talking quietly between them as they cross to an out-of-the-way portion of the deck, looking out into the sea.

It's Hungary who's unsure of herself. Beside her, Austria's face is stern, but his eyes are steady and watch her intently, and she can detect the look in them that other people might not see.

She says, carefully, trying to find the words, "Why should I leave? I've already lost everything else. I don't want to leave my land."

"We're coming back," Austria says matter-of-factly. "It's not forever."

"There's only so much time left," she says.

"Do you want to stay behind?" he asks, and then elaborates when she gives him a confused look. "Right now? Do you want to go home right now and let us sail?"

She looks from sea to land, and even though it isn't hers it's almost as if it's calling to her. _Come back to me, for the little time we have left. Why let go what you haven't truly lost yet?_

"Hungary?" Austria asks quietly.

"Maybe I do," she says. "There isn't enough time for everything now. For going to North America and for staying here." She holds the railing with one hand and glances across the sea again, imagining the time spent to cross it. The time spent to cross back again. How much will she have after that, with the few remaining people in her land, with the hard-won land itself?

But Austria is going, and there's another timer for her: How much time left to spend with one of the people she loves most in the world? Everything conflicts with everything else, and it all has to do with time, and whatever she does, she's going to lose: Austria, or her homeland, or seeing friends she hasn't seen for years.

"Hungary?"

The soft voice and brown hair are so familiar to her. She can map the curves of the face and the wave of the hair with her eyes shut tight, and will be able to hear the voice in her head even if she goes deaf where she stands. And he's still dearer to her than nearly anything there is.

"I'm coming," she says, slowly, and pushes off the railing with finality. Austria follows silently at her heels as she heads for the bunkroom, dodging Norway, who is engrossed in some frenetic activity of his own.

He watches her stride to her own bed, still messy after yesterday's unfortunate spat. She begins to tidy things up, stow them away in preparation for the voyage. Her shoulders are stiff and she is trying not to think of time any more than she has to.

Austria sits on the edge of her bunk, his back straight and hands folded in his lap. He watches her put things away without moving, and when she's finished she sits quietly beside him. She's breathing with the waves.

And after a few more moments of this, she hears Austria's quiet voice from beside her: "Több is veszett Mohácsnál." His pronunciation is none too good, although she doubts he knows it, and he doesn't look at her as he speaks.

She is always losing. But Austria is reminding her, in his aloof, stern way, that things are not quite as bad as they might have been, as they were.

_More was lost at Mohács._

Of course.

* * *

><p>"Germany?"<p>

"What, Italy?"

"Is Prussia going to come say goodbye?"

Germany laughs, and it's surprisingly harsh. "No. He's fast asleep back at the house."

"Can I go back to say goodbye?"

Germany looks down at the smaller Italian nation, who's staring into Germany's face with wide, pleading eyes. Germany can understand the look this time. It's too overt for him, and it's far teary than Germany would ever dream of getting, but behind that bright sheen there's just a desire to say goodbye to a good friend before a long voyage. And Germany wants to do that too: A quick handshake or a word of farewell before a long trip across the ocean on which Prussia won't be joining them.

He doesn't understand why it's hitting him so hard. Everybody seems to be saying the same thing: "We're coming back, it won't be forever." He's said it, and he's heard Austria say it, and he caught even Norway saying it to an excited Denmark. But despite all that, despite the repeated reassurances both given and received, he can't shake the feeling of needing to see his brother before he goes.

But he knows there isn't time. Italy's late as it is and they're due to sail very soon. He can already see Poland wandering up towards the docks, the last of their guests to board. There isn't time for him to run from the ship and find his brother and wish him well and be rebuffed by some stupid boast that Prussia didn't need anybody and he would be fine when Germany and Prussia both knew that maybe he wouldn't be as fine as he said. He didn't really have time for all that. Not unless he wanted to stay behind and defeat the whole purpose.

"No," he says to Italy, and the wide sad eyes spill over. Germany's used to this. "We have to leave," he says as the Italian sniffles and wipes his face on his sleeve and Germany tries not to empathise with him. "Are you ready?"

"Y-yes, but-"

"Good. Go tell Poland he needs to hurry, then."

The task gives Italy something to focus on, although his face is still downcast and his eyes overbright. He heads for Poland's distant figure, and Germany leans against the rail and breathes himself calm.

Across the gangway come Italy and Poland, the former still unusually subdued, the latter complaining about how he doesn't really like the sea and if he gets seasick it's going to ruin his entire day. They pass by and head for the bunkrooms, from which direction Germany expects to soon hear the voice of a none too pleased Austria.

They'll sail soon. Till then, all Germany has to do is wait.

His eyes roam the dockside land for something to see, to distract him, and catch on a distant figure hurrying towards the ship. He can't quite make it out, but as it runs nearer, a voice rises above the sounds of the surf. "Hey! Hey, West! I know you can hear me! Are you going to come down and see me or what?"

The loud, brash voice, the nickname, that light hair, are all too indicative, and all too unbelievable.

Germany brushes by Finland on his way off the ship, throwing a hurried apology in his wake as he hurries to meet his older brother on the shore. Prussia, now that Germany has seen him, has not bothered to come any further and is waiting for Germany to approach.

"What are you doing here, Bruder?" calls the younger Germany nation as he walks quickly up. "I thought you weren't coming."

"I'm not," says Prussia. "But I thought you should see me before you go, just to make your day better." He grins, unashamed, and Germany is already shaking his head at his brother's ridiculous folly.

Or maybe it's because the Prussian has actually roused himself at this early hour to come down to the docks and see him off. He doesn't know which bewilders him more.

"What?" Prussia asks. "You should be pleased to see me!"

"No more than usual," Germany says, because he knows Prussia will take the lie the same way he would the truth: By completely ignoring it.

"You should be," scoffs Prussia. Then he adds, motioning with his head towards the ship, "When you get there, make sure to apologise for the awesome me not being there, all right?"

"Of course," Germany agrees, because it's easier than refusing.

Prussia slaps him hard across the shoulder. "Good!" he says. "Now, where's little Italy?"

* * *

><p>And so they prepare to sail, the five Nordics and their four passengers, some unsure and some unhappy and some who are just aiming to have fun with the world ever nearer to its end. Finland and Sweden work side by side, silent. Prussia lets Italy give him an enthusiastic goodbye hug, promising their swift return and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with his excitement. Germany watches, quiet, until Prussia comes over just before leaving to tell him he shouldn't be away long from the greatness that is his elder brother. Iceland has to prod the two brothers aside because they're standing in the way. And just before they sail, Norway shoos two bystanders off the ship: One, Prussia, waves enthusiastically as he leaves them all behind. The other cannot move for several seconds because Poland is handing out his own enthusiastic goodbye, which is an earful of fast-flowing words.<p>

"You should totally come with us!" he's saying, grasping his friend by the arm to preclude any escape. "You'll like it! I bet we have room." He turns to Norway, who's waiting with slight impatience. "Don't we have room?"

"Poland," sighs Lithuania, his arm twisting to try and free itself from the surprisingly strong grip of his Polish friend, "don't bother him about it. I'd rather not come."

"You'll like it!"

"Poland-"

"Come on, you totally need to get out of that house of yours anyway."

"Poland, I have things to do here."

"Important things?"

"Important things."

The Pole's face twists into an annoyed grimace, and he slowly, reluctantly looses his friend. "Fine," he mutters. "But you should come visit!"

"You're coming back," Lithuania reminds him patiently. "I'll see you then."

"You'd better, like, be there to greet us."

"All right."

"Promise?"

Lithuania sighs and, at Norway's silent urging, starts to walk from the gangway. "Promise."

* * *

><p>The only people not staring back at the land as they leave are the Nordics, who are sailing the ship away. Everyone else is gathered at the rail, eyes focused on their own specific portions of the land and the people standing on it. Prussia is still waving from the shore, staying in sight as long as he possibly can. Lithuania returns Poland's own last goodbye wave, but then he turns and begins to walk briskly from the docks. Poland continues waving anyway, until he realises he and Prussia are the only two left waving, at which point he quickly drops his hand and just watches. Beside him stands Hungary, and on her other side Austria. The pair of them are silent, both watching the coastline recede slowly into the distance, one's thoughts full of time and the other's full wondering how he can make her forget about it.<p>

It's impossible to say any of them are truly happy, and it's impossible to say any of them are truly sad. They're going to meet friends. They're going to attend a party. And they're leaving friends behind, and the entire world is ending, and they each have their own personal woes and worries. They've lost things, some they'll get back and some they won't. They're either very happy for people doomed to die, or very subdued for people on their way to food and conversation and seeing old friends. It's very difficult to tell which.

* * *

><p><strong>End notes:<strong>

- This is a weird chapter, and I think it's partly because I was in much too good a mood when I wrote it. I didn't intend it to have humor, fluff, the Nordics, Poland or Lithuania in it at all. I think it got rather out of hand. So I'd like to know what you think: Was the humor out of place? Was the angst? Was the characterisation off, because I know very little about most of these characters?

- The Italian Italy uses in his conversation with Germany ("Germania! Germania! Dove sei? Germania!") translates to "Germany! Germany! Where are you, Germany?" Later on, "Prussia dice-" just translates to "Prussia said-". If my Italian is wrong, please correct me.

- "Sei still" simply means "be quiet" in German.

- "Több is veszett Mohácsnál," as far as I can tell, basically means something along the lines of "it could be worse" or "don't cry over spilt milk." It means "More was lost at Mohács" and refers to a battle fought between Hungarian and Ottoman forces in 1526, during which the Hungarians were badly defeated and which led to the collapse of Hungary as an independent country until 1918.


End file.
